Marriage is like dancing with no music. There is still an art, and still the beauty; there is also that dimension of more going on that you have in dancing. But instead of the music being enough to give a girl an idea of where life is going, there is none; she must simply follow. Give and take, go and come. Trust. Responsibility. Cry for help. Confidence. Smile her delight. Swing out, spin in. Submit. Dance.

The hobbits watch in dreamlike fixation as a woman beautiful beyond their experience weaves her way around the table, in and out of the kitchen, gracefully dodging a man equally unique to the hobbits: big, clumpy, capering and energetic. Styles so different, the two manage to make a fascinating dance of contrast and complement. How do they make it work? What force prevents collision?

Tom Bombadil sang about his lady when he thought no one was listening, and when he knew they were following, straining for his every word. He praised her as beautiful and trusted her to be ready with hospitality. Brave and free, each with few friends, the couple shared life and interests with each other. Perhaps many nights were spent crafting a tale to spell his lady. He gave her gifts and she did the washing. They each remained who they had been before they met, but they sacrificed things and changed also, making a brand new life together. When the hobbits asked Goldberry about her husband, she spoke with quiet respect, “He is the master.” Perhaps there is no satisfying explanation of Tom Bombadil because he was a man who needed to be known rather than described. There are no memorized steps of the dance with him. Their house is full of the comforts of community: ready beds, generous tables, and long conversation by the fire. Goldberry and Tom knew the value of relationship.

Main characters in Lord of the Rings are unmarried. Nine companions, the fellowship of the Ring, had the freedom to risk their lives and tramp across the world because they were not married. A man or two was moving towards marriage, dreaming of the woman he’d left behind. Tolkien was a real romantic, the kind who understood the pull of adventure and of chivalry, as well as of courting and of marriage. This last is not too common in literature, that real married couples would be glimpsed in story and lifted up for their simple virtue and hard submission. Immensely happy in marriage to Edith himself, this author did not shy away from representing marriage in his stories.

Another example is found in The Fellowship of the Ring before the hobbits encounter Tom Bombadil. Still in the Shire, they meet a hobbit couple, the honored Mrs. Maggot and her intimidating husband, Farmer Maggot. It’s a dreadful name to inherit, let alone acquire, so Mrs. Maggot must have loved her husband, and made the most of it. She too embodied hospitality. Spin in. Feeding a large working farm and family of sons and daughters, she didn’t mind at all to include three hungry strangers at her table, presenting them with heaping helpings of farm fare, mushrooms, and good homebrew. Farmer Maggot was a good provider, a defender of his property – maybe less because of what it grew than of whom it harbored. And when in the service of doing what was right he risked his own safety for newfound friends – this round hobbit reminiscent of the American rednecks – his wife stood at the door and cried out for her husband to be careful. Swing out. This isn’t just something people say. Do you see women encouraging their husbands to do the right thing even though it is dangerous? Do you hear people in unhappy marriages nervous about the other’s safety? No, it comes from a heart of love, natural – yes, and common but only because the simple heart of marriage is common. Isn’t that how it should be?

There are other examples, men and women whose wedded bliss was interrupted by wars, disease, or accident. Take Frodo’s parents. Rumors ran wild that Drogo didn’t get along with his wife, and that she thought his girth was too large even for a hobbit. They died together, though, out boating – and as far as the Gaffer was concerned, that was their only crime. It left Frodo to the wildness of youth, an orphaned rascal living with an extended family too big to take good care of him and to teach him responsibility. This again was the implication given by the sturdy gardener, who had carefully raised his own son under his eye and apprenticeship. What an unlikely beginning for the Ringbearer, whose sense of responsibility called him into the darkness, surrendering forever the possibility of home!

Elrond’s marriage does not appear to have been happy. His wife early (well, thousands of years into their relationship) grew weary of their home and left. Why didn’t she stay for him? Why didn’t he go with her? Should he have gone, the Halfelven whose work was so large in preserving the Middle Earth for which his father had risked much more than happiness and comfort? Should she have stayed, enduring without music, just for the following?

Many characters seem to have lost their mothers or fathers early, including Samwise, Frodo, Aragorn, Boromir & Faramir, and Eowyn & Eomer. It was a hard time, and even marriage did not guard against sorrow and loss. This is evidence that Tolkien’s ideal of marriage was not unrelated to the real world in which he moved. His stories exemplify love and commitment in the midst of the hard times to which we can relate.

Another splendid example of the exertions of marital love and the roles each person takes is the marriage of Earendil and Elwing. Earendil, on behalf of his people, sought to reach the undying lands and plead for the help of the Valar. He was lost at sea, hopeless, when his elven wife flew to him in the form of a white bird with a silmaril at her breast, and, lighting the way to Valinor, saved her husband and delivered his mission from doom. He initiated risk, and she accepted the separation and the danger. In this story the husband led the way on a mission to save the world (as all husbands should), and she supported him with strength of her own and encouragement. I believe the story goes that the couple now above Middle Earth sails till time ends, in the heavens, her silmaril doomed to light the way for all men as the evening star.

Many people in Tolkien’s tales are related to Luthien and Beren, who stole that silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Luthien was the daughter of Thingol (a high elf, one of the first to see Valinor) and Melian (a Maia). Their marriage is another inspiration. King Thingol loved Melian and worked his whole life to make her happy. But he also respected his bride and took her advice. This position Melian wielded to moderate her husband’s temper, thereby making him the best man, father, and king that he could be. Ruling together, they preserved and protected a kingdom of peace, beauty, and, until fate started to unravel the spell of protection Melian had woven around Doriath, of justice.

Thingol and Melian’s marriage is somewhat reminiscent of Celeborn and Galadriel, both strong and wise, with strong claims to the leadership of their people. Yet they ruled peacefully side by side, together attending councils of the wise. Again they both offer hospitality, but are cautious to protect their country against harm, for love both of land and of friends inside. All the wives in Tolkien are beautiful, and all the husbands are valiant. But not all the men are wise, nor are all women hospitable. Celeborn and Galadriel represent together the best of Tolkien’s ideal. They are happy and sad, serious and celebratory. They are wise and strong, beautiful and kind. People love them and follow them, not only in war, but also in peace. Memory is important, and yet there is always curiosity to meet new things. And so it ought to be in marriage. Such I believe was Tolkien’s experience.

My favorite marriage in Tolkien is one that hadn’t yet taken place. Eowyn was independent; she was not free – not because she was a woman at home, but because she wanted things impossible for her to have. Faramir pushed, and she took a small step away. He pulled and she came close. Before she knew what was happening, the simple steps were increasing in difficulty until she cried out, “My hand is ungentle!” The princess grew frightened in the face of love and submission, though she had stood proud as the shieldmaiden of her king even against an enemy as terrible as the Lord of the Nazgul. She cried out to one who seemed to know what he was doing, who was leading her into a place where she was less confident, where her only choice was to follow. And the crying out was trust. Her heart changed, or at last she understood it. She chose freedom, stepped willingly away from her independence, and chose to love, like her partner, to see things grow well. “Then I will wed with the White Lady,” he laughed. She smiled her delight, and on the wall of the city their hands met and clasped, and they faced darkness and light together.